


Gods of Men

by lordelannette



Series: Stucky One-Shots [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky is love, Cupid!Bucky, Fate, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Soulmates, Steve is Death, Top Steve Rogers, death!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordelannette/pseuds/lordelannette
Summary: Death stares at the deity, enraptured by his pouty pink lips and half-cocked grin. He's not sure he's ever seen anything more beautiful. Cupid's glistened skin with sweat and speckled crimson draws Death closer, making him eager to inspect every part of the winged angel.“You give love?” Death asks.“Why?" Cupid bites back. “You take it away. Don’t you?”(AU: God of Death Steve / God of Love Bucky)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stucky One-Shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895044
Comments: 23
Kudos: 241





	Gods of Men

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many projects that need to be finished. Like how is it even possible someone can create so many docs and not finish a single one??!? (send help)
> 
> Soooo I've created a new little series to keep all of my One-Shots together but in no way are they all connected. 
> 
> (And YES I'm working on updating HOS, there's just so much violence that it gets a bit taxing to write at times)

He's been known by many names. 

The Deliverer of Death.

The Grim Reaper.

The Soul Taker.

Whichever way it gets spun, his job sounds much harsher than it truly is. As though he's some villain everyone fears. Truth is, he's quite boring. Quiet. A loner. It’s his path and one that he follows without qualms. It's simply his duty, and it doesn't matter that he's done it for thousands upon thousands of years because day in and day out, he keeps doing it. He retrieves those meant to die and he takes them where they're supposed to go. 

The only spark in his dull life is when he holds the person’s hand in his as they travel. Their emotions and warmth surge through him for only a moment, just a blimp of a second, but it’s enough to chase away the aching loneliness.

Until the next one.

The repetition is wearing on him. Has been for a handful of centuries now, and he always wonders if there’s more out there in life for Death-- for  _ him _ . Because there's something definitely missing. 

He can feel it through the hole in his chest, though. Through the numbness of his heart. Through the way his fingers ache to grab something that is no longer there. Through the hollow reminent of a voice inside his head that sounds and feels alot like home-- a thought that he desperately clings onto even as the millennia pass by.

Sometimes, he wonders if he's even allowed these thoughts. He often ponders what would happen if the powers yank his title away. Would they strip him and toss him in with the other broken souls bound by eternity into the fiery pit? Or would they grant him mercy and send him with the good ones? Above the clouds and into the warmth?

Neither interests him.

What tugs at the loose threads inside his mind is where the people come from. Before Death. During life. In those few moments as he guides them to their new home, they gift him their thoughts and dreams and overwhelming emotions, all of which he's grateful for. Even as Death, he lives all of their lives for a blink of time. He loves it, thrives in it, and yet it’s still not enough.

Because it's never his own. 

“It’s time,” he says aloud to the shadows, though they never speak back. Never even whisper. 

His heart aches and thunders inside his chest, showing him to the next soul he's to retrieve. He's about to head toward it, his purpose driving him, when he hears it. 

_ Him _ . 

Across the planes of reality. Penetrating his muted existence. Tossing color in his black, dark world.

Red.

So much red. 

And the growing echoes of laughter-- laughter that sounds like chaos and destruction.

Maniacal. Beautiful.  _ Broken _ . 

He turns his back on the darkness and ignores the light. Instead, Death follows the sounds to him. Toward the terrible, terrible lovely thing.

Man?

Angel?

Both. 

“Cupid," he calls to the figure that has led him astray. 

Death stares at the deity, enraptured by his pouty pink lips and half-cocked grin. He's not sure he's ever seen anything more beautiful. Anything so perfect. Dark, messy hair hangs over his brows and his bright blue-grey eyes carve holes inside Death's withering soul, exposing every hidden part of him. Cupid's body is lean but toned, the top half bare of clothing. A leather strap crosses over his chest, settling between his pectorals, holding a quiver of arrows on his back. Golden skin that glistens with sweat and is speckled crimson draws Death closer as he is eager to inspect every part of the winged angel.

“Cupid?” he repeats, his own voice a husky whisper.

The young lad smiles and he feels the breath heave from his lungs. 

“And you?” he asks, but the look on his ethereal face makes it clear that he already knows.

“Death.”

“Hmm.”

Death cock his head, pondering Cupid's obvious irritation. “You give love?”

“You take it away,” he bites back, rolling his neck on his shoulders. “Don’t you?”

The role feels too heavy to carry. A burden he doesn't want anymore. Clarity finds him after who only knows how many eons he's endured. Everything is suddenly clear.

“I never take love,” he explains. “I move it.”

“You  _ divide _ ,” Cupid accuses.

Death's not ashamed of his calling. It’s a job. A duty. So why does he feel so guilty? Why does this young god with dark hair and striking eyes make him feel bad for doing what is necessary?

“Let me see your face, Death,” Cupid demands, his pink lips twisted in a cruel slash across his face. “Let me see who undoes everything I do. A wicked, cruel monster. The end of all beginnings.”

He drops his scythe to his feet and tugs at his black hood. Shame heats his cold flesh for reasons he can’t begin to understand. He chances a look at him from beneath his lashes. Is he a monster to Cupid? A horrifying creature who hurts and destroys what he creates?

But when his gaze absorbs the young man's face, Cupid's eyes aren’t narrowed in anger, no, they’re shining with tears.

“What is it?” Death bites on his bottom lip, his brows furrowing.

“You’re so…”

“Terrible?” Death assumes, feeling ice trickle down his spine and settle in his gut. 

Only, Cupid steps closer and lifts a hand, caressing Death's cheek with his thumb. Tendrils of excitement flitter through him. Something familiar nags at him. His flesh heats and he trembles.

“No, Death,” Cupid murmurs in a soft voice that speaks to every part of him. “Not terrible at all.”

“What then?”

“Not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

"To be disgusted.” Cupid sighs. “And I’m not.”

“What are you then?”

“Delighted," he smiles. "Even after all this time.”

Death grins and it’s in this moment that he wonders if he's ever smiled before now. It’s invigorating. Enlightening. “Delighted? Over seeing me?”

_ Finally _ . The word hits him hard enough in the chest that he gasps.

“Someone has to clean up this mess. You’re Death after all.” Cupid's eyes narrow as though he’s daring him to argue. “Right?”

Death's gaze drifts to the pile of bodies behind the winged man. 

A bloody massacre. Dead bodies littered amongst the marbled floor. Red splashes painting against the walls and ceiling. Men, women, children of all sizes and ages lay motionless, glass-eyed, each with sticks protruding from their bodies. But no, not sticks--

Confusion washes over him. 

This isn’t part of his job. Something is wrong.

← ← ←

“What have you done, Cupid?” he rasps out. His blood has gone cold, his eyes wide. He turns toward Cupid and his gaze drifts up his bloody chest. The red stands so vividly against his creamy skin. 

Cupid's tongue darts out and licks against his lips. "I did…I did what I had to do. To stop the never-ending monotony.” He runs a shaky blood-stained hand through his dark hair, making it stick straight in the air. His manic eyes find Death's. “I had to get someone to notice that we’re just part of a vicious cycle that desperately needs ending.”

"You wanted someone to notice?” Death reaches a pale white hand toward him. Cupid doesn’t flinch when he runs his fingertips through the blood speckles, smearing them. “ _ I _ noticed.”

The angel's breath hitches when Death ghosts his knuckles up the column of Cupid's throat and caresses his strong, sharp jaw with his thumb. “You’re certainly here, Death.”

“I certainly am.” Feeling bolder than ever, he touches his ear and then strokes his fingers through Cupid's hair, smoothing it back down like it was before. “What happens now, Cupid?”

His shoulders hunch and he eyes the pile of bodies warily. “I’m not sure. They will punish me perhaps.”

“How?”

“Relieve me of my duties indefinitely?” There’s a challenge in his words. Almost as if he already knows the answer but wants Death to figure it out.

He ponders Cupid's words. “Sounds like a reward.”

Sharp blue-grey eyes snap to his. “Mhm.”

“No one’s coming,” Death says, his gaze locked onto his. “What do we do?” 

" _ We _ ?" Cupid's brows raise but there's just something in the glint of his eyes that says he's not surprised. If anything, he'd expected this. 

"Yes, we." Death waits for the familiar pull to drag him toward the dead so he can take them where they need to go.

But there's nothing.

Not a push, or a shove, or even a whisper. 

The only thing pulling him is curiosity…and something else. Something strong and familiar. Something he can’t quite put his finger on.

Toward  _ him _ .

“I broke it,” Cupid mutters. “I broke love.” Cupid smirks at him. “And Death.”

Death touches his lips, no longer restraining himself, because they beg for attention. Parted and red and puffy. They seem sweet. Death's mouth waters for a taste.

“Maybe it was broken before,” he whispers, pushing his fingers into Cupid's mouth to feel him there as well. Slick and warm. He likes it, longs for it.  _ Needs _ it “Maybe you fixed it.”

Cupis bites his fingers. A pang of desire shoots straight to his cock. Fragments of memories flash inside Death's mind like a kaleidoscope, colorful and brilliant.

“I was…” Death frowns. “I was a man once.” His fingers slip from Cupid's mouth. “I…I feel like there’s more.”

"Tell me, Death,” Cupid sneers. “Were you ever in love?”

An ache, violent and ugly, rips through his chest. Hot tears form in his eyes. Death staggers back, trying desperately to catch his breath. “I was.” 

There’s a hole in his heart filled with anguish and longing. His obligation to his duties somehow dulled the ache—dulled him.

But. Now. He. Feels.

_ Everything _ .

“It hurts,” he chokes out. “Love hurts.”

“When love is divided,” Cupid whispers. “When it’s torn or destroyed or crumpled. Love hurts most when it’s forgotten.” His lashes are wet with tears. “Perhaps it feels like death.”

Death leans in, eager to taste Cupid's lips that are now glistening from the sadness that streaks down his cheeks. It’s soft at first, their kiss. A brush of their lips. Cupid's sharp intake of air. Death's needy groan.

And then he feels the pull.

Strong. Unyielding. Maddening.

To him. To him. _To_ _him_.

Death's fingers tangle in Cupid's soft hair as he greedily tugs him closer. Their tongues duel in an epic battle where love surely wins. Cupid tastes like sweet hope with a splash of despair. Death wants to kiss away the sadness and fill him with something better.

But he is only Death.

He ruins. He erases. He eliminates.

He's no longer disillusioned. Death's filled with clarity and sorrow. Regret for time lost. Desperate for the time that still exists.

“You were mine,” he murmurs, clutching onto Cupid as though he might vanish if Death let go.

“I always was. I still am. I always will be.”

“Why me?” The ache lessens with each passing second.

“There is only you.” Cupid begins to pull away but Death digs his fingers into soft, warm flesh, unable to let him go. Not ever again.

“Don’t go,” he pleads. Begs. 

“Not alone.” Cupid's swollen pink lips curl into a half grin. “Never alone.”

“I’m coming with you?”

“We’re going home.”

Death grips delicate hips, pulling Cupid's body to his once more. The angel's nearness electrifies him. His heart races inside his chest when he catches the familiar scent.

_ Mine, _ his soul screams. 

“Where is home?” he murmurs, kissing Cupid once more.

“Wherever we make it.”

Death sucks Cupid's full bottom lip into his mouth, hungry to spend all of eternity tasting him. “And what about all this?”

Cupid laughs. This time it sounds like hopefulness and peace. “We leave it to Fate.”

The swish of footsteps breeze their way. A slim, redheaded woman with vivid all-seeing green eyes moves to stand beside them. "I believe you called for me.”

“Love. Death. I think we’re tired of deciding these things,” Cupid says. “We ask of you to relieve us of these burdens.”

Fate's lips curl upward. Her green eyes shine. "You've done your duties. If it is reprieve that you ask for, you may have it. Know that although human, your time is indebted by the gods. For every second you served, you may have it back." 

Cupid's hand grips at Death's. The smile on his face is blinding. 

"Sometimes Fate is slow," the woman continues, eyeing them both. "But she always makes her way there in the end.”

She gives them a wink.

Red fades to black.

The angel is gone.

But so is he.

← ← ←

Bucky's lover sleeps late into the afternoon because he’s a man of the night. His pale skin isn’t meant for basking in the sun as Bucky often does while he sleeps. Instead, Steve watches the moon and counts the stars. 

And Bucky always counts with him.

“I don’t smell bacon, love,” Steve rasps out, cracking an eye open. “You’re slacking on the job.”

Bucky runs his fingers through Steve's soft blond hair, an oddity for the dark nature he came from but making him that much more special. “Soon, morning star. Let me look at you a little while longer.”

Steve's dark lashes flutter closed and his pale lips part as he drifts back to sleep. 

When they split them apart, they broke his lover. All the parts that make Steve remember are fragmented and lost. Only their mortal names were given back to them, and the strength of their bond. Steve's heart, though, never forgets. His heart is Bucky's. It knows him and only him. It follows Bucky out of the darkness. His heart never fails.

He trails his fingertips over the curve of Steve's milky shoulder, admiring the porcelain beauty lying beside him. All muscle and brawn but with a touch even gentler than Bucky's. Accepting and forgiving in ways that Bucky will never be.

Steve is perfection, in both light and dark. And he's Bucky's. 

They've had four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three days here in the mortal world, yet it still feels like the first. Then again, to gods time this short is a few minutes at most. They don't linger too long on the future or the past. Not when they've become greedy for small moments. Just like the one they're in now. After they were denied so many, one feels like a treasure. 

A kingdom. 

A  _ reward _ . 

“Bacon,” Steve murmurs. “I’m dreaming about it now.”

“You can’t dream while awake,” Bucky teases. 

Steve's eyes open and are filled with so much love that it steals away Bucky's breath. “I always dream of you. Even awake. Even now.”

He reaches out and rolls Steve onto his back before moving to straddle his naked waist. Grabbing his wrists, Bucky pins him to the bed and smiles.

“You’re getting really good at this,” he says with faux irritation.

Steve laughs—beautiful and pure. “At what?”

“Getting your way.”

“Good, love, then make me some bacon.” Steve's hands free themselves from Bucky's grasp and he playfully slaps Bucky's ass. Steve drags Bucky's body along his hardened cock. “But later.”

“What about now?”

“Let me love you," Steve whispers but the words are loud in the room. They sear right into Bucky's heart, making it skip a beat. Steve's bright blue eyes flash with clarity as he pulls Bucky to him for a frantic kiss. “Like I was born to.”

“And then bacon,” Bucky teases, nipping at Steve's perfect lips as he adjusts his body over Steve's, sinking down onto Steve's thick length.

Steve groans in pleasure, squeezing his fingers against Bucky's skin. “There’s always time for bacon, but there’s never enough time for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> GUESS WHO STARTS STUDENT TEACHING THIS WEEK (GUESS WHO IS ALSO SCARED SHITLESS) 
> 
> me. 
> 
> Until things get rolling, I have no idea how hectic my schedule will be. If it gets bad, I'll make a post on Tumblr so please make sure you keep in touch on there. 
> 
> Until next time ✌🏻


End file.
